


A Fowl Morn (may turn into a fair day)

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Humour, M/M, PWP, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-21
Updated: 2009-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're right, Sir," Ianto says, folding his arms across his chest and ignoring the irritation and anxiety being translated into the rustle of wings, pulling uncomfortably at the muscles across his shoulders, feathers brushing against his arse. "This is far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fowl Morn (may turn into a fair day)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to ggreenapple, Derry and cupidsbow, for beta, britpick and cheerleading!

Ianto freezes at the sound of Myfanwy's approach as she swoops in from above for an inspection, the last of the Hub's current inhabitants to do so. His grip tightens on the tray, prepared to toss off the mugs without a second thought and use it to fend off her attentions if need be, despite the fact that making the coffee was an extended chore in itself, with much cursing expelled just to find a way to fit in to the tiny kitchenette. She lands nearby, tilts her head to peer at him with one inscrutable eye, then after a long pause clatters her beak briefly in a way he's come to interpret as 'May I have my supper, please?'

"Not now, you silly beast," he mutters at her, fairly convinced that she's not considering _him_ for a meal. After all, it'd only taken her a few seconds to devour the shape-shifter wearing Owen's face, last time, living up to her suggested role as guard dog before any of the rest of them had even realised they'd been infiltrated. (Now _that_ was a bit of CCTV footage Ianto was going to keep for his personal records.)

Still, despite her lack of comment or otherwise aggressive overtures, Ianto doesn't turn his back on her as he edges around the gangway and toward the conference room, unable to let his smugness at her intelligence overwhelm the paranoia that he might about to be dinner.

She finally hops away and launches herself up in disinterest, but Ianto's relief is short lived as he turns to face the door of the conference room and sees his reflection, superimposed over the attentive faces of his colleagues, avidly watching his approach.

He concentrates on setting the tray down, on transferring the mugs onto the table without any more force than is strictly necessary. They're still talking--around him, not to him, though he'd think otherwise with the way they're staring at him.

He grimaces when he discovers the next trial is yet another he's not anticipated; his usual chair is waiting with utmost inconvenience and he's just pondering just how much of his dignity he's willing to sacrifice by turning it around and straddling when Jack helpfully rolls a stool in his direction, one that ordinarily lives in the lab. Ianto nods his thanks and perches on it.

No, not perching. He's sitting on the stool. _Sitting._

Jack reaches across for his mug and his sleeve brushes against Ianto's knees; the stool's too tall for him to tuck his legs under the table. Just another baton twirl in the parade of ridiculousness this day has become.

"Nothing I can see on the device to indicate it's a weapon," Tosh says, sliding a printed piece of paper across the table to Jack. "Perhaps medical?"

Ianto attempts to read the print out, sense of panic increasing as he realises it's more unintelligible than usual. The impending hysteria subsides a little when he realises it's because he's trying to read it upside down. That's _no_ to the alteration of neural functions as well, but the light, breathless feeling in his chest has yet to abate. Does he have hollow bones as well, now?

"Recreational, even," Owen's drawling. "And to state the obvious: if it was going to have a detrimental affect, it would have happened by now. Test results say there's some kind of alien chemical reaction occurring at the site of the... attachment."

Owen pauses abruptly, looking as everyone else does just over Ianto's shoulder as the faint whisper of rustling feathers interrupts them.

Ianto forces himself to be still. "Alien chemicals?" he prompts, pleased with how calm his voice actually sounds. A shame his extra limbs haven't caught up with the bodily control he's otherwise able to maintain in such circumstances. "You were saying?"

"Yes, right." Owen leans back again in the deep cradle of the chair's back, holding a pen between his fingertips at either end. "You'd have more to worry about if there weren't any in there; they're what's smoothing the way of the bond, stopping your body from rejecting them, stopping the foreign tissue from poisoning your body."

"So they are definitely foreign tissue?"

Owen grins. Ianto resents it. "Well, foreign body parts. The DNA makeup of the tissue, on the other hand, is one hundred percent human."

Abruptly, the additional limbs connote a whole new level of wrongness, sending Ianto into a spiral of horrified disgust, somehow more than if they _were_ foreign tissue. Did Ianto produce the one hundred percent human materials required to construct them? If so, where did that material come from, and why isn't he feeling the effect of that? Are they constructed entirely of dead skin cells, pore excretions and shed hair?

Jack's matter-of-fact tone interrupts Ianto's grimacing. "So what you're saying is, all you've determined is that Ianto isn't going to die from this."

Tosh and Owen exchange glances. Tosh nods decisively.

"That and... Well, we thought you didn't go for birds, Jack."

Gwen titters and Tosh looks down at the table, pressing her lips tightly together. Owen looks pleased with himself. Ianto knows because he's glaring at him.

"Sorry mate," Owen says, insincere but at least non-caustic. "Long day, low sugar levels."

Tosh makes a noise of agreement. "Come to think of it, I'm feeling a bit peckish myself..."

The noise Gwen makes this time is a lot less dignified. She at least has the good grace to look a little guilty about it, though any good will Ianto might have towards her is erased when she follows it with, "I've hardly eaten anything myself today, what with this great cock up!"

It's not the double entendre Ianto's used to with that particular word, but that just seems to spur the guffawing around the table to greater heights.

"Guys, guys," Jack says, clapping his hands loudly twice as if to startle them back into order. He glances briefly at the scowl on Ianto's face and says to them, "You might want to _duck_ for cover if you keep that up..."

Ianto stands abruptly and they look gratifyingly alarmed for a moment, though Tosh seems unable to stop giggling despite the imminent threat. The stool wheels across the room and knocks into one of the glass walls at the force of Ianto's rising. His insulted exit is terribly marred, however, but the wings--half-raised in affront--crashing into the doorjamb as he attempts to stride out of it. They're still laughing behind him, though Owen's calling, "Hang on, hang on," breathlessly after him, but Ianto gathers the shreds of his pride and keeps going. The shreds being somewhat solid and feathery, today.

Jack comes to find him later; Ianto hears him approach but doesn't turn, despite the fact Jack comes to a halt a little too close to ignore. Ianto shivers at the unused-to sensation as Jack's trouser leg brushes against a primary feather, tucked away but not well enough, wings hunched against his shoulders. He hears Jack sigh heavily behind him, the sort of sigh that communicates, 'I pity the way your primitive 20th century mind is dealing with this situation, but am so generous with my wisdom that I wish to assist you through it' and invariably sets Ianto's teeth on edge.

Ianto shoves the filing cabinet drawer closed and yanks open another. The metal arms of the hanging files screech against their railings. Ianto forces himself to concentrate on the words of the labels he's skimming through; _Winchester (USA)_, _Wind (flatulence, alien)_, _Wine (see also: intoxication)_, _Winged Horse (see also: Pegasus Galaxy)_...

Ianto slams the drawer and grips the handle of the next one; jerking his hand back and out of the way as Jack unconcernedly rests his rear against it, forcing it closed as he lounges back.

"Ianto."

There's nothing Ianto can do about it except wait and look for more information, so that's what he's doing. He's waiting, and he's looking for more information, and he's trying to forget about the fact that he's grown two extra limbs, probably out of dandruff. And he's managing this. He's managing perfectly well.

"Ianto," Jack says again. He braces his palms on the edge of the cabinet by his hips, elbows jutting back. "Is this really _that bad?_"

"You're right, Sir," Ianto says, folding his arms across his chest and ignoring the irritation and anxiety being translated into the rustle of wings, pulling uncomfortably at the muscles across his shoulders, feathers brushing against his arse. "This is far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Jack waits. "But...?"

"But _I've got fucking wings_, Jack!" He throws his arms up in exasperation, feeling another mental jerk of frustration as Jack's gaze is automatically drawn to the movement over Ianto's shoulders. "And I don't care if you can buy the bloody _toy_ that did this at your 51st century ASDA, but this is _not_ something I can consider normal!"

Ianto breathes hard, feeling much better now that's out of his system, though still far from perfect.

"Come here," Jack says, not rising out of his slouch against the cabinet but reaching out as Ianto shuffles forward. He cups the back of Ianto's neck. The staples that are holding Ianto's shirt together at his collar prick against the skin pulled taut over the top knob of his spine. Gwen had administered the stapling; Ianto had been right in thinking that the combination of stationery and semi-nudity would just make Jack over-excited. Jack had been the one to do the emergency ripping in the first place, though, when the wings had started sprouting; tearing was a much faster way of preventing Ianto from choking than undoing buttons would have been.

That had been one of Ianto's favourite shirts, though. It just wasn't _fair_.

"51st century ASDA?"

Ianto presses his forehead briefly against the top of Jack's shoulder before lifting it again; he refuses to be embarrassed. He's entitled to at least one outburst per personal incident with unknown alien device. It's in the Torchwood Employee Handbook.

"It's not all bad," Jack says, breath puffing hot against the side of Ianto's jaw. Jack fiddles with the fine hairs at the back of Ianto's neck, and his other hand lifts up to run gently down the alula of the left wing, hand cupping over the feathers. Ianto's breath catches, and he holds as still as he can when Jack takes a firmer grip and tugs gently, unfolding the wing. The right one spans out as well; Ianto doesn't have enough control over them yet to prevent the automatic muscular symmetry. The wingspan is wide enough that he barely has to turn his head to look at them.

"See?" Jack admires.

Ianto's not sure if he's more or less mortified that the wings themselves are so... _ordinary_. Aside from being attached to his very human body, of course, and at least they are in proportion to the rest of him, but there's no angelic white or imposing jet black; he's as mottled brown as a barn owl. Which would make brilliant natural camouflage, no doubt, were Ianto in the habit of hiding in dead trees. Perhaps newsprint would be more appropriate; as it is, he can't even hide in the Archives.

Jack's touching the wings almost reverently, now, conversation abandoned as he ruffles the tips of the secondary feathers with his fingers, the other hand grasping and sliding along the radius with cautious pressure. Ianto groans and drops his head against Jack's shoulder again, half turned-on by the intensity of Jack's attention if not the sensations of delicate, creeping warmth themselves; and half fed-up by the whole damn _day_.

"I can't do this right now, Jack," he mutters against Jack's collar.

Jack slides both hands beneath both wings, hands pressing against the softer tertial feathers before coming to rest at the base of them, where Ianto's flesh begins again. Jack's hands are warm against the exposed skin, and Ianto's chest bows forward involuntarily, far from hollow.

"What do you want to do, then?" Jack mumbles in his you've-come-hither,-now-come-closer voice.

Ianto slumps a little, the change in posture withdrawing his hips from Jack's very obvious interest in the proceedings. "I just want to go home," he says. "Go to bed. Wake up in the morning back to normal. I want this to all be _over_."

Jack rubs at his back. It's obviously intended to be comforting, but is still blatantly sexual in the way that his fingers are stirring the soft down near the roots of the wings, and the way that part of Ianto's body is so infuriatingly _alert_ right now.

"Okay," Jack says. "But... 'Ow'll you manage to do that, then?"

"Jack!" Ianto shoves himself away, pushing out of the embrace and scowling from a couple of feet away from where Jack's holding a fist up to his mouth, barely covering his own laughter.

"Sorry, sorry," Jack says. "I can't help it! Can you blame me?"

"Yes," Ianto says, unrelenting, and turns to walk away again. This might not be life-threatening, but he doesn't have to put up with... with _puns_, for god's sake!

"Ianto, Ianto," Jack says, jogging after him, and around him, bracing Ianto's shoulders and holding him at arm's length. "Will you put those things away? You'll have someone's eye out."

Ianto frowns, forces the wings down again from their reflexively defensive pose; Jack watches with held breath.

"Seriously, though," Jack says. "You're not going to fit in the car with them. Not even the SUV. Unless..." He grins. "You could always lie in the back seat." Jack waggles his eyebrows. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"I'm not lying in the back seat," Ianto retorts. Aside from being completely undignified, it'd be a terrible violation of road safety. Not to mention the fact that it would require someone else driving him home, and he wouldn't trust Jack to keep his eyes on the road and not the rear view mirror.

"Well... We could walk."

"Walk?" Ianto says, and, "We?"

Jack shrugs. "They're not _completely_ out of this world," he says, as if that's reasonable explanation. "Easily mistaken for a costume. Part of a film, even!"

"Why would anyone be shooting a _film_ in Cardiff?" Ianto scoffs, but has to concede; Jack's suggestion is the best one, and the only way he's going to get home. "We?" he prompts.

"You're under the influence of unknown alien tech," Jack explains guilelessly. "You should be kept under observation at all times."

"And you're just the man to do it."

"From the mouths of babes."

Ianto raises an eyebrow, but supposes he should be grateful it's not another bird joke at his expense, so leaves it at that.

It's a bit too much to hope for that he manage to get out of the Hub without further mockery, especially once Ianto decides to take the shortcut to escape via the invisible lift. The subsequent slew of witticisms from his colleagues about soaring through the air with the pterodactyl is topped off by Owen's parting shout to phone him if, quote, "Things take a _tern_ for the worse."

Jack's no better, as is always to be expected, even though he's crammed onto the paving stone alongside Ianto and his extra limbs. In fact, he even goes so far as to slide his arms around Ianto's waist and, without warning, start to lean them precariously close to the edge.

"_Don't,_" Ianto says sharply, tone mirroring the sound of the wings snapping in tense startlement. "I'm not--"

"Good with heights?" Jack suggests, utterly unmoved and grinning into Ianto's face.

"--Aerodynamically sound," Ianto completes shortly, elbowing Jack away from him. Although he's not about to go so far as to shove Jack off the rapidly rising lift completely, he's not going to let Jack know that.

The urge to push Jack away properly when they reach the Plass is strong, though it's less personal and more tied to the rising anxiety of his imminent step into public view. Not that there are many people around at this hour on a Tuesday afternoon; locals striding past the Millennium Centre for coffee meetings on the Quay, the rare tourist or two lingering longer beneath the copper overhang, or photographing their reflection in the water tower.

"Come on," Jack says. "Like a bandaid."

"Would that I could just rip them off," Ianto mutters, and alights from the stone in step with Jack, forcing himself to _not_ watch the couple of passersby, to see if they're looking back at him.

He hadn't anticipated how the open air would feel different on the wings than the closed, secure atmosphere of the Hub had; now Ianto feels equally challenged in not bolting across the pavestones and out of sight and keeping the damn things still. Thank god they're unavoidably connected to him, not in possession of a mind of their own, but nonetheless he's now fighting new physical instincts he's never had; to spread them out, let the feathers catch the eddies of air.

He's not going to have much protection from the insistent gusts coming up off the Bay, thanks to the picturesque landscaping of whomever designed the Plass, at least not until they're into the residential streets, apartment blocks solid protection enough from the wind. As they walk under the unhelpful cut of the Millennium Centre's face Jack's coat billows around him unconcernedly; Ianto feels obscurely jealous of it for a brief moment. There are people exiting the Centre, he can see their double-takes even through the multiple glass door barriers and sets his jaw grimly, trying to ignore the sound of excited chatter behind them as he and Jack are forced to halt, waiting for traffic to clear before they can cross Bute Place.

Abruptly, Jack's hand is on his arse, in an intensely not-in-my-PDA,-thank-you-very-much position. Ianto is pleased at how he's able to suppress the automatic twitch of the wings, a dead giveaway of realness when one is trying to exude fakeness. "Jack," he warns.

"Relax," Jack says. "It's for the greater good. I just reduced the chances of us showing up on MyFace by at least ninety percent."

Ianto looks to where Jack is gesturing; there's a family of tourists gawking by the sightseers' bus stop, including a disgruntled-looking teenage boy lowering his cameraphone.

Ianto smiles sweetly, giving Jack a brief and largely chaste kiss, both playing along and rewarding the success of the sentiment, at least. "You move your hand any lower and you can kiss your balls goodbye."

"Did I ever tell you about--"

"--The acrobat twins, yes." Ianto sighs and keeps walking before the pedestrian lights can tell him to, rolling his eyes at Jack's chuckle behind him. Thankful for the lack of traffic mid-afternoon on a weekday, they get through the rest of the intersection with little fuss and Ianto directs them right instead of straight up the more direct route; they'll have less of an audience on the side streets, even if it does take longer. The breeze coming off the bay stills the further they get into the built-up streets, ceasing the endless ruffling of Ianto's feathers, much to his relief.

Jack's still walking behind him, despite the generous width of the footpath. Ianto looks over his shoulder and frowns. "This isn't an afternoon stroll, you know."

Jack's expression is rapt. He blinks a couple of times before relocating his gaze to Ianto's face. "That's not why," he says.

Ianto chews on his lower lip, almost walking sideways in order to watch Jack watching the wings. "Hurry up, then."

Jack beams, positively skipping past Ianto and turning to walk backwards in front of him, hands shoved in his pockets. The cloud cover above them is grey and patchy, drifting listlessly. A square of sunlight makes Jack's shoulders glint gold.

"You're wearing epaulettes," Ianto says in a tone of mild disbelief.

"Yup." Jack withdraws his hands from his pockets, unrolling and jamming what looks like a decidedly military cap on his head.

"Why?"

"Now we're both in costume."

"But you _always_ dress like that!"

"And it's about time the world paid attention."

"Timing could be better," Ianto observes, acknowledging rather than scorning Jack's exhibitionist streak, and the inevitable Rift sabotage.

As if to prove his point, Jack's expression loses some of its playfulness as footsteps beat rapidly behind Ianto. He tenses, stepping to the side in the hopes of simply letting whoever it is past, but no such luck. The man who Ianto recognises as the pedestrian who ineptly attempted to hide his interest in them from across the street has crossed over and come up behind them.

"Hi," he says breathlessly. Ianto catches movement from the corner of his eye; Jack checking the newcomer out, naturally. He's not the only one to notice; the man gives Jack a brief grin, but his eyes are drawn back to Ianto's wings. "Nice costumes," he says appreciatively.

He's not unattractive, Ianto supposes, and suppresses the urge to shake his wings in order to regain Jack's attention. No doubt another instinct that's been sutured into him along with them.

"Thank you," Jack says shortly, though the curl of his lips is not uninviting. He starts to walk again, still backwards, and Ianto follows his pace once more. The man is forced to walk awkwardly sideways, not getting the hint and clearly not wanting to give up his view of either of them.

"So, you two..." His gaze darts between them again with a hint of uncertainty before settling predominantly on Jack, as if he's the safer bet. "At first I thought you must be in films, but you're... Are you going somewhere I might join you?"

"What?" Ianto suspects he's not doing such a good job of keeping the wings subdued and innocuous--or as innocuous as they can be--right now.

Jack's smirking.

"Er, you know... A club, or..." The man's looking more sheepish now than hopeful, though with a hint of nervousness that increases at Ianto's expression. "Look, I don't mean to offend; perhaps you could just give me the name of it, even if you're not interested in...? It's not often that you find people like... Well, and I'm new around here, so..."

"Sorry," Ianto says, cutting him off. "I'm afraid you've got it wrong. We are in films."

The man looks slightly disbelieving, but unwilling to throw courtesy to the wind and challenge it. "But you're--"

"He's a pilot," Ianto says, pointing at Jack.

Jack smirks. "That's right. And he's my wingman."

Ianto forces a polite smile.

The man's looking more and more sceptical by the minute. "What sort of films?"

"Have you seen _Airplane!_?" Jack asks, as if he's intending to see the conversation out to its natural end.

"Sorry," Ianto says, grabbing Jack's elbow as they reach the next corner in the street. The movement effectively cuts the other man out of their configuration, barricading him out with the wings, intimidating even when inert. "We're terribly late for our flight, not good for the pilot to miss his ride and all that." He jerks Jack across the road, not looking back and not hearing any further footsteps following them.

Jack doesn't look back either, and doesn't make any further comment, which in itself is cause enough for concern, considering the nature of the encounter. Ianto glances at him. Even though Jack's not speaking his mouth is still open, his lower lip glossy where he keeps wetting it with his tongue. His gaze seems distant until he turns to meet Ianto's eyes, and then it's unavoidably close, dragging over Ianto's face, pupils dark.

"That was a terrible pun," Ianto reprimands without venom, watching the gleam of Jack's teeth as he smiles, the pink tip of Jack's tongue trapped briefly between.

"Your pun or mine?"

"Yours, of course," Ianto says; he hadn't really processed the fact that his parting shot could be construed as one, and suddenly Jack's not the only one left a little speechless by its suggestiveness, or rather the mental images that ensue. They come to cross the road again, waiting on the verge impatiently as a car slows before passing them. Ianto lets go of Jack's elbow, but can't help but brush the edge of one wing against Jack's knuckles where Jack's arm hangs by his side.

"Besides, strictly speaking, I don't think mine can be classified as a pun."

"I think I get some leeway, after all, back when I was in the airforce we had to _earn_ our wings..."

"Oh, shut it," Ianto says, more out of eagerness to get past this ridiculous verbal foreplay rather than out of genuine irritation. He's got _ideas_ now, and the closer he gets to home the more appealing they become, anxiety about his condition and public exposure rapidly taking the back seat.

Jack seems to have ideas too, though how practical they are is up for question; as soon as the front door closes behind them he's crowding Ianto in an ill-considered move, going for a kiss but resulting in a shout of pain instead as the wings are briefly crushed between Ianto's back and the wall.

"Sorry, sorry," Jack says, trying to put his arms around Ianto's shoulders, then Ianto's neck, then finally Ianto's waist, a hold that doesn't command much control over the kiss, frankly distracting Ianto more than causing a swoon.

Jack's hands creep up Ianto's back, fingers curling again in the downy feathers behind the tertials, and Ianto's not so overwhelmed by the kiss--and, to be honest, still physically reeling a bit from the shock of pain at having the wings crushed--that he can't see that Jack's teetering, awkward pose rapidly losing his balance as he tries to be close to Ianto and yet not force him back against the nearest immovable object.

"Wait," Ianto says, pulling away from Jack's mouth with a wet _smack_ of saliva.

Jack blinks dumbly and his hands drop to Ianto's hips again as he draws back, eyes set over Ianto's shoulders. His hands move to Ianto's belt. "You're right," he says, grabbing and manoeuvring without preamble, turning Ianto around and managing to duck beneath one wing but still not providing enough warning before pushing Ianto against the wall again, face-first this time.

The wings jerk up and out, the expression of startlement that ordinarily would have resulted in no more than a huff of Ianto's breath; as it is, Jack _Oof_s around a mouthful of feathers.

"Stop," Ianto says more firmly. "This isn't going to work." Because as appealing as the destination of Jack's thought processes are, with Ianto's current motor control Jack's not even going to be able to get close enough. He pairs the command with a roll of his shoulders and more controlled stretch; Jack makes a helpless noise of appreciation and Ianto looks, sees Jack staring at the admittedly impressive extended wingspan. He folds them enough to turn, and Jack obediently steps back.

Ianto eyes the bulge in Jack's trousers. "Clothes. Off," he commands, taking advantage of Jack's apparent obsequience. He quickly finishes unfastening his own trousers, toeing his shoes and socks off as he steps out of them and then yanking off his tie. He starts on the buttons of his shirt before groaning in thwarted realisation.

"Wait a minute," Jack says, drawing Ianto's attention back to him. He's removed his pants and trousers, naturally, but has yet to take off his coat, and now from his pocket he produces... A staple remover?

Jack brandishes it with a lascivious grin. "Got the perfect tool for the job."

"That's what you said last time," Ianto says, remembering the last time Jack had helped him with his shirt, earlier that day. The panic at possible impending death by choking or alien growth had overwhelmed the sense of embarrassment that was surely due from being thrown to the ground and having your clothes literally ripped off you by your boss in full view of your colleagues (and before eleven AM, even). In fact, he might even have a bruise from the knee Jack used to pin him down, forgotten in other major changes in tissue back there. He might have to get Jack to have a look for it, later.

"And I was right, wasn't I? I've _always_ got the perfect tool."

"Get on with it."

Jack's breath is hot and eager against the back of Ianto's neck, coupled with the delicate scrapes of Jack's fiddling with the back of his collar making Ianto's hair prickle up along his nape. The wings rise again of their own volition, and with Jack angled with more care between them now, the feathers dragging friction along the coarse wool of Jack's coat sleeves.

"You're making it very hard to concentrate," Jack observes, voice rough.

The shirt loosens and a shrug is enough to send its pitiful remains off Ianto's arms and to the floor around his feet; the sensation of the fabric is immediately replaced by the heat of Jack's mouth, fastening against the taut line of Ianto's shoulder. Jack's hands drop to knead with experimental pressure around the base of the wings, the staple remover thudding against the carpet. It's followed shortly by the pilot's cap; Ianto grips its soft felt with his bare toes and tosses it towards the coat rack with a surreptitious kick.

"Take your coat off," he orders Jack, the words rough in his throat like the air coming out of his lungs is hotter than usual.

Jack obeys, rapidly stripping out of his shirt and undershirt too, and Ianto could get used to this; not just Jack doing his bidding without snark or question but Jack breathing heavy and uncontrollable against his shoulders, Jack's hard on hot against his lower back with no more encouragement than the calculated stroke of feathered wings across Jack's bare arms.

As Ianto's body heats up, the awkwardness and tension melts away; not an unusual effect for sex to have but this time it's a whole new set of muscles, tendons, joints turning elastic and alert to every touch. Surely there's more feather than skin under there, and yet the sensation of Jack rubbing his hands and face against the wings are picked up by the stiff quills, translated into intense sensation as if the feathers are sprouting from his very bones, hollow conductors directly into his nervous system. Ianto pushes back but inadvertently pushes Jack away with the movement, Jack's hand tightening automatically, gathering a handful of feathers. Ianto hisses in discomfort.

"Bed," Jack says decisively, letting go and withdrawing with obvious effort. "Now. C'mon."

Ianto feels a pang of envy as Jack falls back against the sheets, spurred on by Jack's obvious enjoyment as he wriggles decadently against the cotton. It's startlingly cool against Ianto's knees as he pauses at the foot of the bed. He could flop down just as easily, face first, hump his own erection against the smooth folds of the sheets, but the passivity of it doesn't sit well with him today. He's relishing Jack's fixation too much to remove himself from it by facing away.

Jack reaches for him happily as Ianto crawls over his body, surging up to wrap arms around Ianto's neck finally as he curls the wings experimentally, cupping their bodies against the bed. Ianto braces himself on his elbows, bringing his hips down to rub their cocks together, returning Jack's kiss with ferocity. Jack grinds upwards, parting his thighs and forcing Ianto's knees wider. Even braced so, the length of time Ianto can hold the position is apparently limited; the wings dragging unanticipated weight on his upper body, his arms starting to feel the strain in a seriously distracting way.

Ianto shuffles his knees up then pushes himself upright, sitting back on his haunches against Jack's thighs. He runs his hands over Jack's heaving chest, Jack's nipples sharp against his palms, and admires the ridiculousness of Jack's hair, hopelessly tousled from rolling his head around against the bedsheets.

Ianto leans over to fumble in the drawer of his bedside table, grateful for Jack's hands firm on the top of his thighs and bracing him as he discovers his centre of gravity is altered even more significantly when he's knelt on a mattress and turned on. When he settles again he waves the condom packet at Jack briefly in explanation, holds out the tube of lube until Jack opens his hand for it, expression mildly confused.

Ianto raises an eyebrow. "You're the pilot," he says. "Aren't you going to get piloting?" He rocks his hips, shifting forward enough that his arse presses against Jack's groin, and that's apparently more than enough to bring Jack around to Ianto's way of thinking.

Ianto sucks in a sharp breath as Jack pushes fingers into him, cold and slick with lube, and the wings tremble, half-extended, the involuntary movement echoing back into his chest. Jack slides another in and twists; Ianto retaliates by arching back this time instead of forwards. Jack spreads his own legs a little wider, plants his feet and bends his knees a little to gain more control over Ianto's position and Ianto stretches the wings back and folds them in again, dragging the wingtips against Jack's inner thighs.

Jack's body jerks in response, a rapid undulation that leaves his cock throbbing against Ianto's thigh; his fingers curl as if involuntarily.

"Piloting," Jack pants. "Fuck, yes. God, I love those epaulettes." He withdraws his fingers and exchanges the lube for the condom Ianto's still holding, tearing the packet open with his teeth and urging Ianto up onto his knees to give him room to roll it on, watching between the frame of Ianto's legs as Ianto strokes on some extra lube. "Yes," he hisses with deep conviction. "I should be wearing them _right now_."

Ianto laughs, shuffling forward a little more in order to come down again in the right place, shoulder muscles tense as the wings strive to help him find balance with one hand reaching behind him. "Honestly," he says, still half-laughing at the thought of Jack wearing the epaulettes and nothing else, though it's more a kind of breathless huffing as he sinks back onto Jack's cock. "What are you _like?_ Oh--"

Jack grips Ianto's hips, preventing him from rising up again, and instead rolls his own up in a powerful, leisurely thrust. Ianto gasps, head falling back and mouth open, gripping Jack's wrists, the sensation of Jack's cock in him too much for a moment, too intense for him to even make the decision as to whether his hold is to prevent further movement or push Jack away entirely.

"Come on," Jack pants. "Come on, show me, come on--" His hands move urgently over Ianto's thighs, his hips, his buttocks; easily pulling out of the loose restraint, not even touching Ianto's cock before urging Ianto up to give himself room to thrust again.

It forces an involuntary cry from Ianto's throat, the sound enough to startle him into snapping back into control. He slaps Jack's hands away, bracing his own palms against Jack's chest before lifting again of his own accord, driving back down with a calculated tilt of his hips. And _that's_ it, god; the angle just right to send a jolt of electricity up his spine, so much easier to find when he's the one looking for it, riding Jack's cock instead of depending on it to find the pleasure for him.

He moves again, muscles in his thighs straining as he makes it slow, grinning benevolently down at Jack as Jack's hands find his hips again, thumbing the jut of his hipbones but otherwise complying with the pace Ianto sets. Jack's cock still feels huge inside him but the burn is far from unpleasant now, and Ianto leans back again to seat his weight back on his hips instead of his hands, freeing them to stroking his own erection leisurely.

Jack's gaze flicks to the movement, then back behind Ianto; Ianto follows his gaze and sees the wings held high and taut, their delicate structures thrumming with the tension that pulses through him, spiking when Jack pushes his hips up again.

"Yes," Jack gasps breathlessly, his face and throat aflame with colour that's spreading to the surprisingly delicate skin over his breastbone. "That's it--" His hands grip Ianto firmer now, and Ianto doesn't stop him, matching the rhythm of his movements to Jack's quickening thrusts, thighs and shoulders burning from the exertion in a way that's probably going to be sore later but right now feels magnificent.

The wings spread out wider behind him and he's immensely glad now for the walk home from the Hub; there's no way there could have been room for this down in Jack's quarters. Every descent forces Jack's cock against his prostate and rising pushes his cock through his own fist; Ianto closes his eyes in bliss, careening towards climax as his body flushes with heat.

An unexpected sound makes his eyes fly open again, and he's close enough to the edge that the surprise pushes him over rather than yanking him back; his spine arches helplessly and air flushes over his damp skin as the wings beat, forced wind in the small room sending papers into the air. Their stiff edges _clack_ as they hit the floor, sheets hissing as they settle, the sound that had disturbed him. The sound of shattering glass crowns it: the bluster the wings have whipped up strong enough to knock over a photo frame.

"Oh, god," Ianto huffs, mortified even as the aftershocks of his orgasm make his body shudder and clench around Jack. His back bows and he tilts forward to catch his weight on his hand again as Jack shoves up almost violently, coming with his eyes wide open and fixed on the wings poised above them.

Ianto dismounts with a wince so he can collapse face-first without the risk of them being effectively glued together, Jack's chest covered with Ianto's come. Jack's hand flails a little before landing in it, and Ianto turns his head into the convenient nook of Jack's underarm rather than watching Jack lazily examine its consistency between his fingertips.

Eventually, Ianto regains enough control of his limbs to clean up a bit, wiping him and Jack both off and knotting the condom before throwing it into the wastepaper basket by the bed. When he turns back, Jack's gazing at him with something Ianto might classify as adoration. But then, Jack's always effusive with affection in the afterglow. Far from cynical about it, Ianto feels a surge of fondness at the uncomplicated happiness softening Jack's features.

"Spirit of Ecstasy," Jack declares once he's sufficiently caught his breath, speaking with great satisfaction.

"The bird puns were bad enough, now I'm a _car?_"

"Hey, I'm the car," Jack leers, flopping a hand over to grope sloppily at Ianto's hip.

"And a Rolls, no less," Ianto rejoins, returning the gesture by grabbing at the delectable pinch of fat around Jack's waistline.

"Oh, I walked right into that," Jack groans through a laugh, belly shaking under Ianto's hand.

"I think you'll find you _rolled_ into it," Ianto suggests.

Jack throws his arm up, covering his eyes with his wrist and groaning. "It's a good thing you're good in bed, because your pillow talk leaves a lot to be desired. What happened to the razor-sharp wit of office hours?"

Ianto pinches Jack's middle in lazy retribution, but Jack's completely imperturbable. "I test it all out on you beforehand," Ianto mumbles, finding his eyelids drooping; he shifts his weight off his side to lie fully on his belly, wings settling on his back warmly, feathers tickling less than the feel of Jack's slowing breath against his ear.

He wakes what feels like moments later, but the light in the room has changed, from grey afternoon to twilight, the curtains half-drawn against the inky outdoors and gold spilling from the lamp on the bedside. There's the sound that woke him again, the rustle of plastic; Ianto tilts his head and squints up. Jack's eating a packet of crisps, barely finishing crunching through one mouthful before dipping his hand in for more.

"You get crumbs in my bed, you can just get right out again," Ianto grumbles.

Jack shrugs unconcernedly. "What'd be the point of that? Not like the crumbs would march out behind me." He screws up the empty packet in one hand, licking the grease and salt off the fingers of the other.

Ianto groans and turns his head back into the mattress, drifting on the mental images provided by the sound of Jack smacking his lips. The wings haven't disappeared yet, then; the feathers heat the length of his back and legs almost down to his knees. They twitch a little as if in response to his thoughts of them, and Ianto tucks his arms in under his chest, resenting the pull of previously unused muscles across his upper back and shoulders.

The bed rocks a little as Jack shifts, wriggling down from the headboard again. With eyes closed and face against the sheets Ianto can't see him, but the smell of salt and fried potato on Jack's huffed breath makes his appetite perk up faintly; his stomach tells him it's after office hours, but probably not quite time for dinner just yet.

There's the sound of Jack considerately wiping his hand off against the bedsheets, then he touches Ianto's back, resting his hand lightly between the wings. The skin is tender, and Jack's fingers feel cool against it, effectively distracting Ianto from the self-reproachful thoughts of wasting an entire afternoon in bed. Ianto shivers a little, tucking his elbows beneath his chest more firmly, very aware of the wings folded against his back and feeling unavoidably like a kitsch porcelain ornament, the kind one finds in the Christian pockets of new age trinket shops. It's a thoroughly depressing moment of self-identification.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, though, his touch moving from Ianto's skin to the base of the wing, fingers brushing through the dense coverts that cap the top of it. He shuffles his body closer and Ianto can feel the heat radiating from it despite Jack's hand being their only site of contact. Ianto tilts his head a little, opening one eye to watch Jack's face as he extends the wing nearest, feathers splaying out under Jack's hand and unfolding across Jack's naked body.

"You only want me for my wings," Ianto accuses the expression that washes over Jack's face.

"Not true," Jack says, not even feigning affront as he turns his head a little to rub his jaw against the edge of the wing, eyes half-lidded. "You've got a lovely cock."

Ianto snorts, pleased despite his ongoing determination to be unmoved by Jack's cheap praise. Keeping his wits about him in that respect is much easier when Jack's not paying any attention to the body part in question, but the tumble of sensation that feeds back into his bones as Jack manipulates the extended wing to stroke over his own curled shoulders is intense and unexpected.

"Besides," Jack continues, his leer made somehow more sensuous by the increasing weight of his arousal. "This is all business." He folds the wing back and then sits, pivots, swings his leg around to straddle Ianto's back. "I'm observing them, remember?"

"Jack," Ianto grumbles in warning, tensing, not ready for round two just yet if round two involves Jack fucking him again. He could try to throw Jack off, god knows he's done so countless times before, but crushing the wings against Jack forcibly would no doubt cause _some_ pain on Ianto's part, and rolling onto his back to put Jack off is obviously completely out of the question.

"Relax," Jack says, and shuffles forward with his knees spread on either side of Ianto's torso. They nudge against his elbows, forcing Ianto to move his arms; instead he stretches them up, folding them beneath the pillow and turning his head to the side.

Jack tightens his thighs against either side of Ianto's ribcage and Jack's arse rests on Ianto's lower back. The weight only lasts a moment, then Jack's lifting again to lean forward and take the wings in his hands, having settled himself in the perfect position to manipulate them and prevent them from folding down against Ianto's back. Ianto grumbles again, wordlessly, but doesn't bother opening his eyes, trying to keep his deep inhale silent as Jack's hands smooth experimentally over feathers.

Jack's touch moves over both wings almost symmetrically, running his fingers lightly over the plumage of the flight feathers; tertial then secondary, then Ianto tightens the span so he can reach the primaries too. The touch lifts and returns over the humerus of either wing top, stroking along the feathers' grain more firmly, using the grip to manipulate first one wing and then the other, angling them almost directly up then folding them part way down again. The incremental movements, faint translation of pressure from the wingtips and hitches in Jack's breath provides the mental image of Jack stroking himself with them, perhaps rubbing the stiff primaries against his chest, his nipples.

Ianto tries to turn and look but all he can see is a wall of brown-speckled feathers. He groans and drops his head again.

Jack laughs, low and breathless and thoroughly pleased with himself and Ianto can't find it in himself to be resentful. He's been sleeping with Jack for long enough to find the intensity of Jack's fixation more comforting than anything; the immovability of Jack's attraction to him, extra body parts or not, more reassuring than the thought that he's presently being fetishised.

Jack guides the wings up again, stretching straight back past his own shoulders, his hands skimming down to bury in the thick down that cushions their roots; Ianto groans again in an entirely different way.

"Sore?" Jack murmurs, the word a hot puff of air against Ianto's nape; Jack's leaning down closer to him than he'd thought. His touch lightens, fingertips brushing over skin instead of feather, and admittedly Ianto _is_ sore beyond the usual, Jack's touch magnified on the tender flesh around where the wings have sprouted, muscles new and unused to being used aching from his previous involuntary and highly undignified exertions. _Flapping_, for god's sake.

Jack doesn't hesitate at the lack of a verbal answer, instead encouraging with a few directed touches the wings to spread out again, lying flat against his thighs and taking some of the strain off the joints that collect their weight. He buries his fingers back into the down, curling them bluntly around the joint, burrowing to seek out Ianto's shoulder blade and smooth out some of the tension cupped beneath it.

Ianto rolls his shoulders in involuntary pleasure, the wings gliding briefly against the tops of Jack's thighs, catching against the coarse hair. The movement of Jack's fingers is spreading warmth from the base of the wings across Ianto's back, sparking a deep tremble within his chest. Jack bends forward again and kisses the skin between the wings and Ianto can feel the wet head of Jack's cock drag against his back, pressed down by Jack's belly. His own cock, half-hard from the attention, jerks at the spike of sensation, almost obscene in its immediacy amidst the slow simmer of heat Jack's hands have raised across his back.

Jack slides his grip to the back of Ianto's neck then strokes firmly outward along the planes of Ianto's shoulders, moving to encircle Ianto's upper arms, pushing the bracelet of his hands towards Ianto's elbows. Ianto flexes his biceps in the grip and stretches his arms out beneath the pillow, gripping the bars of the headboard instead. The slight change in pose inverts the curve of his spine, pushing his shoulders up and pressing his belly into the bed, eliciting much-relished pressure on his cock.

Jack's exhalation of satisfaction stirs the hair on the back of Ianto's head briefly, and then Jack's sitting back a little again, shifting his weight and forcing more pressure down against Ianto's ribcage; Ianto's trapped, delightfully so.

"You've got a bruise, just here," Jack murmurs, one hand bracing himself, buried in the down between Ianto's shoulders and the other rubbing the head of his cock against a tender spot on Ianto's back, below the wings and to the left of his spine.

Ianto makes an embarrassing noise. "B'cause you knelt on me, you bastard," he mumbles, voice half-slurred from his face being pressed into the pillow.

"If you hadn't been rolling around so much I wouldn't have had to hold you down in the first place," Jack reasons, shuffling forward, his weight on Ianto's ribcage forcing the air out of Ianto's lungs, his cock a hot line against Ianto's back where he presses it down with his palm. Jack hums happily, hips rocking a little. "Though the shirt-tearing... that was fun."

"B'cause 'm irresistible," Ianto says, trying for dry and mostly failing. When Jack rises a little on his knees again he sucks in a deep breath that lifts his back, brushing against Jack's straddling inner thighs.

Jack answers by guiding his cock into the downy feathers at the base of one of the wings, cupping it there at first and then pressing it harder, rubbing the head experimentally against the tender skin where the feathers begin to emerge. Goosebumps spread across Ianto's back, his nipples tightening and cock jerking against the bedclothes; both the sensation and Jack's complete lack of self-consciousness so unavoidably erotic.

Jack's free hand braces against the headboard, the tremor in his grip transmitted through the bar Ianto's still holding; Jack moves his attentions to the other wing, smearing precome over Ianto's skin.

"Don't you dare come on them," Ianto warns, shifting beneath Jack as if threatening to throw him off, in actual fact rubbing his own erection between his belly and the sheets below.

Jack laughs through his teeth, barely definable from his increasingly laboured breathing. "Why? I could always... preen them..."

It's ridiculous and yet made appealing by the sincerity of Jack's suggestiveness. Ianto tenses the new muscles, pulling the wings up taut again and Jack is so immovably close that Ianto couldn't avoid dragging the feathers over him even if he wanted to. Jack says something unintelligible, knees tightening on either side of Ianto's torso as his movements become more erratic; then Ianto's not sure if he should be more relieved or irritated that very little of the hot spatter of Jack's come has ended up on the skin of his back and neck, and none in his hair.

It's leaning more towards irritability, aided by the increasing physical frustration of having Jack wrung out and panting on top of him, the smell of Jack's come thick in the air with Ianto's own cock still trapped and neglected beneath him. The sound of Jack's phone ringing tips the balance, really.

"Jack," Ianto gasps, trying to tip Jack off, or at least rouse him. Flicking the wings pointedly only serves to make Jack groan, and the phone rings four more times before Ianto wriggles around enough to grab it before it vibrates right off the bedside.

"Jones," he huffs into the mouthpiece, trying to fold his arm back in without dislocating his shoulder, wishing he was as blissed out as Jack was right now, or at least enough to ignore the ringing of a Torchwood mobile out of hours without a pang.

"_Ianto? Are you all right?_"

Ianto suppresses a groan, the action becoming more difficult as Jack slumps against his back, forcing the air out of his lungs again. "Yes," he wheezes succinctly, wanting nothing more in this instant than to just _roll over_.

"_Are you sure?_" Tosh says, sounding concerned, a tone that ordinarily makes Ianto feel inordinately fond of her but right now merely adds to the increasing sexual frustration. "_You sound... strained._"

"Well, I can't exactly lie on my back now, can I?" Ianto retorts.

"_I, um,_" Tosh says, and Ianto can hear the barely-contained laughter in her tone now. If anything, it exacerbates his cock's eagerness for attention. "_I suppose so. Sorry, it's just..._"

"Just?"

Jack's mouthing mindlessly at Ianto's shoulder, more rubbing his face against it than anything else. Ianto's not even sure Jack's aware he's doing it. He can feel the unsavoury bend of feathers as come plasters them to Jack's chest.

"_Well, I just thought that Jack would have... soothed your ruffled feathers by now._"

There's a long pause.

"Please at least tell me you've got good news, Tosh," Ianto says, deciding to pretend the conversation has only just started, his tone of begging admittedly slightly more desperate than merits the topic under discussion. His face feels hot despite his futile determination to not be even mildly embarrassed.

Jack finally lifts off, and Ianto's lungs inflate suddenly and reflexively; he misses what Tosh says next as Jack crouches over him, still touching but with no pressure, his head right next to Ianto's and ear pressed to the other side of the phone.

"Tosh?" Jack drawls. "Say that again?"

Even the air coming out of Jack's mouth smells like come. Ianto screws his eyes shut and tries not to rut into the mattress whilst on the phone with his colleague.

"_...Another hour or so,_" Tosh is saying. "_According to the manual display we triggered. Owen and I are--_"

"Uhuh," Jack says. "Go home. We'll see you tomorrow." He takes the phone from Ianto, snapping it shut again, and sighs heavily against Ianto's neck.

Ianto twists beneath him again, increasingly restless; finally Jack allows himself to be thrown with minimal wing-crushing and Ianto struggles to turn and heave himself into a sitting position, feet swung around to plant on the floor. His chest aches with sudden relief, and he drops a hand to his cock, squeezing it briefly in an attempt to relieve the pressure there as well, hissing a breath in through his teeth.

Ianto looks over. Jack's sprawled back on the sheets again, watching him appreciatively.

"I told you not to come on them," Ianto admonishes. His irritation is not enough to detract from how turned on he is right now; if anything, it has the opposite effect, working him up in more than one respect. Ianto supposes it would have to be that way; how on earth he'd put up with Jack let alone get to the point of having sex with him if irritation _wasn't_ an obscure personal aphrodisiac is beyond him.

Jack shrugs unapologetically. "If Tosh is right, they'll be gone before you need to clean them." His gaze shifts from Ianto's cock to his wings again, turning thoughtful.

"Come here," he says, rising to his knees. Ianto allows his body to be arranged again, trusting in Jack to get him off if nothing else, that particular need taking priority over all others right now, the muscles in his thighs weak with it. Jack positions them nearer the edge of the bed, both kneeling up with Jack behind him.

The wings splay out between Jack's chest and Ianto's back as Jack presses forward; the ache in them now not unlike the ache of fucking, pressure that should be unpleasant but only fuelling the escalating need to come.

Jack wraps one arm around his chest to steady him, his other hand grasping Ianto's cock without further preamble. Ianto moans in gratitude. _Finally._

"Look," Jack whispers into his ear, breath humid and making Ianto shudder. His skin feels a sort of tacky sensitivity all over, tender and heated from Jack's attentions, abraded by the bedsheets.

He blinks his eyes open and looks down to see the red head of his cock encircled expertly by Jack's fingers and doesn't stop the surge of his hips at the sight. Jack laughs, though, nudging Ianto's head with his own, redirecting his gaze to the mirror affixed to the back of the bedroom door, directly opposite them.

Ianto's eyes close reflexively, but the feel of Jack's hand on his cock is too good to pass up the opportunity of watching; he opens his eyes again. Surprisingly, the wings aren't the first thing that draw his attention in the reflection. The sight of his own body uninhibited in arousal is so different from the anticipated, composed self-inspection usually undertaken in front of the mirror that it spurs an almost visceral reaction through his body, rolling and pushing back against Jack. He can only look at his own face for a moment, too far gone to control the slackness of his jaw or heaviness of his eyelids, his skin ruddy with a flush that spreads down the front of his body, leading his gaze down to where Jack's leisurely jerking him off.

Jack chuckles against his ear, and Ianto's eyelids lower further but don't close, watching the sharp shine of Jack's teeth in their reflection as Jack bites his earlobe lightly. "Told you so."

Unable to articulate a verbal response Ianto extends the wings out further, dragging them against Jack's chest. He watches the trembling stretch of feathers in the mirror, pinions splayed, and listens to the rasp of Jack's breath; when he pushes his arse back it slides his erection through Jack's grip and Jack thrusts forward against him in response, eager despite being barely hard himself.

Ianto concentrates on trying to keep the wings still when he comes this time, but the intense focus ends up merely magnifying the sensations feeding into his nervous system from them. They ache, tension coiled around the delicate structures, hollow bones only demonstrating more flexible resilience as Jack tightens his arm around Ianto's chest. Ianto feels the orgasm jolt through him like jumping off a cliff, focus barely on his cock at all as if by dragging it out like this Jack's made Ianto's whole body into a sex organ, additional limbs included.

"Oh, god," Ianto groans when he feels capable of speech again. His body feels like wire that's been tied in knots then forcibly stretched out again, and the flush of sensitivity that's flooded the surface of his skin through orgasm makes him hyper-aware of just how much come he's got on him, now; both his and Jack's. "Oh, _god_, I need a shower," he elaborates, the thought alone of standing beneath a near-scalding flow of water sends a shudder of lust through his over-sensitised and rather sore limbs.

"Later," Jack says, sounding slightly less wrecked, but appeases Ianto a little nonetheless by kicking the most ruined bits of bedding out from under them, Ianto possessing only enough motor control to make sure the wings are clear of his body before slumping down and closing his eyes.

When Ianto wakes again it's because he's too hot, sweat gathering in the groove of his spine, but when he flails out to shove the duvet away his arm meets no resistance. It's darker than it was when he fell asleep though his digital alarm clock illuminates enough for him to see the misshapen, shifting mass that seems to have taken over the bed.

Ianto rolls over and reaches to flick on his bedside lamp, muscles in his shoulders giving a twinge in protest of the movement. He squints a little, looks back to the bed. The mysterious, soft and very well-insulated mass in in fact a mess of feathers; it looks almost as if Ianto's down duvet has ruptured explosively. He sighs and feels something tickle against his chin, spits futilely for a moment or two before peeling the feather off his lip with his fingers. He locates Jack under the pile from the sound of his soft snores and the way they make the feathers flutter with disturbed air.

The urge to clean is strong but Ianto chooses instead to lie still and aware for a few moments longer, the feathers alternately soft and quills scratchy against the bare skin of his back but they're not _attached_ to him any longer, so he enjoys the discomfort almost perversely. And of course, enjoys even more standing and leaving them all behind him when he walks away, centre of gravity back _exactly_ where it's supposed to be, thank you very much.

By the time he's finished in the shower his stomach is reminding him that he hasn't eaten since lunch; a glance at the bedside clock as he's pulling on a pair of clean underwear tells him it's almost nine-thirty. Jack's rolled over, bare arse sticking ridiculously out of a sea of feathers, head under the pillow.

Ianto finds another empty crisp packet on his kitchen bench, and a jar of brine bereft of gherkins, lid sitting pointedly next to it. He sighs, emptying the jar into the sink and rinsing it out with hot water before propping it on the otherwise empty dish rack. There's a bagel in the breadbox that's only a little stale, and Jack has obviously still to discover the dairy compartment in Ianto's fridge, because the tub of cream cheese stashed in there is still over half full.

It's not worth dirtying another plate when he's this hungry, so Ianto devours the first half of the bagel in a few ambitious mouthfuls, and then holds the second half in his jaws so his hands are free to carry the vacuum back upstairs.

Jack bolts from asleep-and-supine to awake-and-upright in less than a second when Ianto steps on the power button, the vacuum cleaner's obnoxious whirring instantly flooding the previous silence of the bedroom. Jack stares at him in alarm; it's easy to stare right back impassively and not smirk when Ianto's still holding the bagel in his mouth. Though he is salivating it around a bit too much to be strictly dignified. He holds the vacuum wand in one hand and uses the other to take the bagel, severing off the bite he's been holding in his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing and tearing off another mouthful.

Jack slumps back, rubbing his face with his hands, and Ianto scowls at the cloud of feathers it sends up into the air. He angles the nozzle against the sheets, feeling immense satisfaction as he watches the feathers flow eagerly into the tube. He doesn't even realise Jack's talking until he's done his side of the bed and is moving to Jack's, and sees Jack's mouth moving.

"What?"

"I said," Jack yells back. "Do you have to do this _now?_" Jack's pressing handfuls of feathers protectively against his own chest, Ianto realises.

Ianto chooses to deem Jack's continuing fixation as more questionable than vacuuming up the remains of one's former wings in one's underwear at 10 o'clock in the evening, and conveys as much with a single raised eyebrow.

Jack scowls and closes his eyes again, as if determined to ignore Ianto and therefore make the clean-up just that more difficult. Jack jerks when Ianto sets the mouth of the nozzle against the outside of his thigh for a brief moment; the vacuum cleaner's pitch whirring up a notch as suction affixes it to Jack's skin, then dropping again when Ianto pulls the nozzle away.

"Do that again!" Jack yells, and Ianto rolls his eyes. He prods Jack's rump with his foot instead, and Jack finally, begrudgingly, rolls out of the way.

When all visible traces of the wings are gone Ianto powers off the vacuum, taking great pleasure in stepping on the cord retractor, feeling it coil and rattle under his bare foot. Lazily, he decides to leave the vacuum propped in the corner by the door instead of taking it downstairs again.

Back on the bed, he tucks his hands behind his head and rolls his shoulders, eyes sliding closed as he goes so far as to rub his bare back a little against the sheets. It feels brilliant.

A deliberate tickle of sensation starts on the tender skin above his armpit, moving down and across his chest, sinuously circling his nipple before trailing lower. He cracks open his eyes again; Jack's propped on his side next to him, tracing along the top of the waistband of Ianto's underwear with a rescued primary feather. Jack's expression is distinctly hopeful.

Ianto eyes the feather pointedly, then closes his eyes once more.

"It's going to be a long time before I find that even moderately sexy again," he lies, and Jack takes it as the challenge that it is.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1486031.html


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